


And I'm Talkin' To Myself At Night (Because I Can't Forget)

by thosebowleggedhunters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cop!Sam, Gen, M/M, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer!Dean, charlie's mentioned too idk, psychopathic tendancies, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thosebowleggedhunters/pseuds/thosebowleggedhunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People will believe anything if you're a good enough actor. Which he is. If he wasn't a psychotic killer with major family issues, bad habits, and questionable morals, he'd be the next Brad Pitt. Maybe.</p>
<p>OR; where Dean is a serial killer of sorts, Sam pretends to be a cop, and Castiel watches intently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'm Talkin' To Myself At Night (Because I Can't Forget)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd.
> 
> Kinda based on [ this ](http://story-in-everything.tumblr.com/post/63318240942/sammyboner-rhirules97-whenever-i-see-this)

Dean heaves a sigh. He's finally got everyone in the vault. Everyone last fucking one. The past hour he's been running around rounding up a bunch of pathetic, whimpering adults and herding them into the vault in one of the largest banks in the city. Sam's outside with the cops, acting like one himself, making sure there's a clear exit to his baby once he's done.

He chuckles under his breath as he surveys the men and women in the safe. "It's safer in here, no way in or out other than 8 feet of solid steel." he told them with a small smile. He puts back on his civilian face, and tosses the AK on his shoulder forward into both hands. The AK he 'wrestled away from the serial killer before he took off'. People will believe anything if you're a good enough actor. Which he is. If he wasn't a psychotic killer with major family issues, bad habits, and questionable morals, he'd be the next Brad Pitt. Maybe.

"Sir?" a quiet voice says, bringing Dean out of his movie star fantasies, "Sir, what's going on? Please, we're--"

"It's all right," Dean cuts her off, clearly and calmly, leveling the gun at the people inside, "you're all gonna be okay."

The screaming starts, along with pleads and bribes that fall on deaf ears. He doesn't kill because of the hit man money or the 15 minutes of fame or because he's batshit crazy. He kills because he doesn't like being one-upped. Or maybe that is insane. Huh.

He looks up into the face of the camera aimed at the opening of the vault. Dean hopes this bastard is watching, along with the CIA and the FBI and whoever else wants him dead. He winks and gives a flirty smile, before emptying the entire clip into the 39 people cowering in front of him.

Some sick pleasure he gets from holding all the power that may have come from the daddy issues or the constant neglect from everyone but Sam makes him laugh uncontrollably.

He continues laughing for far longer than he anticipated (which lends credit to the insanity thing). He tosses the gun to the floor and looks back up to the camera, a twisted grin still on his face. Keep this up and they'll be calling him 'Joker' in no time.

"Beat that." Dean mouths at the camera, before pressing a button on single wavelength pager linked only to Sam's identical one. The all-clear should come within the next couple minutes.

He spends the next few moments weaving through the dead, marveling at the blood splatters across a particularly handsome man's face, and at the blood clinging to the  fingertips of a woman he's shot twice in the gut, once in the shoulder and finally once in the chest.

He checks their pockets, wrists and necks for cash, watches and other jewelry. Killing isn't without its high and low points. High points; everyone's got something expensive on them. Pretty invigorating too. Low point; being on the FBI's most wanted when he started winking at the cameras.

Ya win some, you lose some.

When his pager lights up with the all clear from Sam, he's got 400 dollars cash, a couple of Rolex's, 4 diamond rings and a sapphire necklace stuffed in his pockets. He debated taking a few smartphones, but decided against it. Too easily traced, and these people would need their families contacted. And they say he's heartless.

He chuckles again and surveys the various bodies splayed out around him and feels like some kind of wrathful God. He did this to these people, and ended every single one of these lives. He made a single choice and it stopped 39 lives. The insanity of a single choice stopped 39 lives in an instant. Complicated and so simple at the same time. He can still feel the heat of them dissipating into the air.

The pager lights up again, a "get your ass in gear" from Sam. And with that, he takes off running on the route he planned out earlier with Sam. Dean heads down the hallway past several windows, keeping his movements quick and his head down. They won't shoot him dead, but they'd beat him to a pulp, question him, and beat him again just on principle, and THEN kill him. But a bullet in his shoulder would slow him down and that just wouldn't do.

He needs them to see him running this way. So they'll clamor to get to the roof top exit before he does and get to be the first to put a bullet in Dean Winchester. It's Sam's job to call them idiots and tell them that Dean's smart--Which he is, thank you very much--and he'll try and trick them. And then to lead them around the back to wait for him. Leaving the roof clear for Dean to escape down the ladder, jump in his baby, and drive like hell. Preferably not through the police barriers.

His pager beeps twice, then once, then twice again. He stops dead. That's not what he wants to hear. He doesn't want to hear anything, beeps are bad, lights are good. He wants to hear that Sammy got everyone off his ass and around back, not _that a fucking group of them said they'd wait at the top just in fucking case._

 He almost goes back for the AK he tossed on the ground before remembering A) it doesn't have any ammunition left and B) the noise would bring everyone running up to the roof to end his career. He'll have to take these suckers with his charming smile and the knife tucked in his boot.

He runs along a long hallway (with no windows, thankfully), before turning left at the end and booking it up the small flight of stairs. At the top, a rusty steel ladder is bolted to the far wall, admist a bunch of garbage bags, hoses, mops and brooms.

Well, now or never he guesses. He grabs the ladder with both hands and shakes it slightly, checking that it is, in fact, bolted to the wall. It would be just his luck to start climbing, have the stupid thing unbolt itself and send him crashing to the floor. At least they wouldn't have to go far to clean up his cracked skull juices. The ladder seems to hold, so he begins to creep up the rungs, pausing once or twice near the top to listen.

If there's only two or three at the top, he should be able to keep his head down and claim he's a hostage. After the cops lower their guard, he'll probably be able to handle all of them before any of them can notify the cops on the ground. If there's more than 3, he could be in big trouble. Only one way to find out.

He eases open the door hatch above his head and peeks out over the top. There's two uniformed police standing over by the edge of the building he needs to escape over. Their backs are turned on him and one appears to be smoking a cigarette. Amateurs. He almost feels bad that he's about to kill them. From their bulky torsos, he assumes the pair are decked out in Kevlar bullet proofing, leaving vital leg and neck arteries exposed.

He glances across the rest of the roof, looking for others stationed at another side of the building, but he can't see behind him due to the hatch opening. It's pretty dark up on the roof, due to _someone_ cutting the industrial areas power (thanks, Charlie). He can definitely use that to his advantage. He brings his left leg up higher on the ladder rungs and slips his fingers down to his ankle, pulling out the angled knife with two fingers.

He pushes the hatch all the way open, letting it crash loudly against the roof. He let's his breathing go ragged and heavy, like he's been running. He clambers up onto the roof, as the police turn their heads towards the explosion of noise. He turns on the spot quickly, and spots no other police than the ones squinting at him through the darkness, guns raised. Perfect.

"Oh god, you've got to help me. He's insane!" he pants, pitching his voice higher and letting feigned panic slipping into his voice. His hands go up and he let's the knife slip down his sleeve (a trick he'd picked up from the smug bastard playing on the other end of this game).

The cops immediately drop their weapons and slide them back into their holsters. One presses a button on his shoulder radio to let the others know they've got a 'hostage'. He let's his hands drop and he breaths a heavy sigh, and runs towards the cops like the frightening hostage he pretends to be. He slips the knife down into his hand just as he reaches the first officer and impales it in his throat and rips the blade across his neck in a fluid motion. The cop gurgles something at him and blood seeps down his neck.

"Hey, what the fu--?" the other cop yells, reaching for his holster. But Dean has already dropped the dead cop and is running hard at him, ruby tinted knife clenched between bloody fingers.

The cop attempts to level his gun at Dean's head, but he's already launching himself at him, knife extended. Unprepared, the cop drops the gun and Dean kicks it away with his foot before pressing his knee down on his wrist. The cop yelps at the pressure now on both wrists, pinning him to the rooftop. Dean plants a hand over his mouth to stop him from yelling for the others and digs the point of the knife into the cops throat, just under his jaw.

He cops eyes are wide with panic, pupils blown wide in the dark. A wild anger burns in his irises, he knows he's going to die, and yet still struggles, trying to bite at the hand covering his mouth and kicking out with his legs.

Static crackles through the air, and a voice comes through the cops shoulder radio, "Officer MacLeod, is the hostage secure?"

Officer MacLeod screeches through Dean's hand, and Dean clamps his hand down tighter. He reaches for the radio with the hand holding his knife, and presses the button on the side, adopting the slightly higher, croaky voice he heard the officer yell in when he slit his partners throat.

"Officer MacLeod here, hostage is secure, sir."

"I thought I hear a commotion up there. And what was that screeching noise? 

"Just closing the roof hatch sir, wouldn't want that Winchester bastard getting up here."

"Too right, MacLeod. Radio if you hear anything fishy."

"Will do, sir."

Dean slides the radio back into it's holder and grins down at MacLeod wickedly. The defiance in the cops eyes doubles and he kicks out again, bucking his hips upward, in an attempt to unseat Dean. Useless, of course, as Dean hovers over him out of reach.

"Y'know, I like you MacLeod. Don't ask me why." he says, still grinning at the cop, "Maybe it's the look in your eyes, the desperation or the struggle you're putting up when you're clearly going to die."

He whimpers underneath him, and his eyes go misty. The strain against Dean's knees and hand lessens.

"Hey, hey. No, you can't give up like that," he scolds, "I just said I like your guts McLeod, and you go and whimp out on me? Disgusting you are."

A tear leaks out of the cops eye, but he goes back to struggling underneath him, breathing hard against Dean's hand. He manages to nip at some of the loose skin of Dean's palm and bites down hard. He breaks the skin and Dean pulls away cursing, shaking out his hand, scattering the blood leaking down his palm. The cop goes to shout, but it comes out as a weak whine as a hard punch knocks his head sideways.

Dean refits his hand over McLeod's bloody mouth and chuckles, "See, that's what I'm talking about. But I'm afraid it's going to cost you."

A glow lights up on his left side, his pager signaling from Sam, asking if he got away.

"It's been nice talking to you, but I'm afraid I really must go."

He jabs the knife into the side of McLeod's throat and slowly drags it through his flesh, feeling the knife hit his windpipe and tear through it easily. Blood spurs from the neck wound and Dean releases his hand from his mouth and watches blood leak from the corners of his mouth.

"Winches--" McLeod mutters around his broken throat, choking off the end. His eyes slide shut. He fingers twitch a couple times, and then stop.

"Officer down." Dean whispers, and then cackles unexpectedly loud. He gets off the officers corpse and skips to the edge of the fire escape.

He races down the fire escape as quickly as he can without making much noise, and jumps from the top of the last flight of stairs. He hits the ground with bent knees and falls into a roll over his right shoulder, springing to his feet and taking off in a flat out run, his momentum almost knocking him over again. His baby should be parked just around the block.

Ducking around the building adjacent to the bank, he radios Sam to let him know he's clear of the area and to start wrapping things up.

He skids to a halt beside his precious car, jumps in, throws her in drive and screeches out onto the street, a laugh bubbling to his lips. He let's the laughter carry loud and high as he hurries towards home.

 

* * *

 

Across the city, in a dimly lit room, a video plays on repeat. An atrociously handsome man with a gun winks and smiles at the camera, before murdering 39 people, laughing hysterically moments after.

"Beat that." he mouths before moving out of sight.

Cas gets to his feet to refill his tumbler with scotch. He chuckles under his breath glancing back at the video, where Dean is winking and smiling again.

His fingers find the edge of a knife imbeded in the table and he let's his hand ghost over the sharp angles. A small smile plays over his lips as he formulates his counter attack.

He studies the picture tacked under the knife. A tall man in a police uniform with shaggy brown hair and hazel eyes speaking into a shoulder radio. He doesn't have Dean freckles or bottle-green eyes, but the similarities are there and he's about 90% sure.

"Something a little closer to home this time, huh Dean?"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry 
> 
> I'm not even sure if this is going anywhere but hey, it's a start.


End file.
